Facit Reges
by liriaen
Summary: Souryo Fuyumi's 'Cesare': The Purple makes kings, not priests... and Michelotto has a thing for certain paraphernalia. Cesare Borgia/Miguel da Corella, rated M.


**Title**: Facit reges

**Characters & Fandom:** Cesare Borgia/Miguel da Corella; your choice of You Higuri's "Cantarella" or Souryo Fuyumi's "**Cesare**" - the nature of the protagonists' relationship at this point would suggest the latter.

**Word count**: ~ 2800

**Rating**: R

**Warnings**: Please abstain from reading if you have well-developed Catholic sensibilities, premises of this story being that a) Cesare is already Cardinal of Valencia, and b) Miguel has a thing for certain... paraphernalia.

**A/N:** Written for yaoi_challenge. Set around the time of La Raya, i.e. the Treaty of Tordesillas. And the Spanish ambassador really was that rude. :) Thanks to catsintheattic and kennahijja for beta! Remaining mistakes entirely my own.

**Summary**: The Purple makes kings, not priests.

* * *

---

**Facit reges**

**---**

_May I suggest you kneel_

_I suggest you kneel and-_

_Kneel._

He rifles through the words, frantically looking for the right expression and tone. He's trying them on like gloves, pushing his fingers inside; silently lets them roll off his tongue. They make him queasy. He's not meant to say them. Not he.

---

Turns out he doesn't even have to open his mouth until later, and oh, what things he'll say. All reasonable doubt will be swept away by the moment, by the force of their hunger and the power of the Purple. He'll be scathing and vicious, tongue lashing out to double the welts. He'll call him every name under the sun. He'll let him know what a miserable little cunt he is. He'll tell him to swallow. Order him not to come. Tell him to lift his legs and spread himself wide like a good whore. Yes, just like that.

---

"Oh thank God. I thought they'd blather on until Judgement Day." Cesare sounds petulant. He throws the tasselled hat into a corner, not quite like an ancient Discobolus but rather like a very young and sullen boy, and just a few seconds later, Miguel can hear the bed creak.

Turning on a heel, he sees Cesare's stockinged feet poking from the curtains, toes a-wriggle. They look funny like that, and it's with a fond smile that Miguel pushes himself up against the balustrade to watch what goes on in the yard below.

The Portuguese deputation is just about ready to leave, friars huffing and puffing, bishops and ambassadors waving their pudgy hands like fans in the heat. Cesare is right - it did seem as if they'd never shut up, His Holiness and the others. Countless eulogies in badly pronounced Latin, minutiae and mathematics, the most twisted sort of geography to secure this bit of land mass and that...

Miguel shrugs. He's not stupid. He knows what's happening. One needs no great political acumen to know why they're here, the Spaniards and Portuguese sitting in Roman antechambers, sweating like pigs, hoping to catch the Pope's ear. They're splitting the world in two - cracking it like a pomegranate. It's alchemy, this, because their signatures will miraculously transform into spices and silks, and no matter in whose favour Cesare's old man will decide - the ink from the Papal Cancelleria will turn to gold, ferried to Rome by the shipload.

With the cumbersome, bleating train gone, Miguel suddenly hears the snore. Cesare's feet are dangling, and the boy attached to them... is fast asleep, judging from the sound of it. Only then does Miguel re-enter the murkiness of Cesare's suite. The walls are thick and facing north, so there's hardly any sun in here. Miguel's eyes need a second to adjust. "Cesare?" he asks.

Nothing.

There's a snuffle when he repeats the name, but no sign of waking, so Miguel decides to busy himself, slipping into memories.

---

"How do I look?" Cesare swirled the cloak around, patting his bum beneath the velvet. "Madonna, this shit is heavy. I mean, heavy. Here, try this." Snatching Miguel's hand, he hefted a good swathe of Purple and made him hold it.

Yards and yards of cloth, indeed, from Cesare's soft white tunic to red cassock and pluviale. Respectfully, Miguel thumbed the proffered silk and velvet, all too aware of the things Cesare wasn't saying.

_How grand they look, these robes. A vestibule of the choicest red and black. Black for your everyday dealings, red for days of the liturgy. Red for a cardinal's duty to shed his blood in defense of the faith, usque ad effusionem sanguinis, should it come to that._

_Yeah, right._

"You look splendid," Miguel offered, keeping his voice soft.

"I do, don't I." Cesare's smirk grew pained, cheerfulness evaporating. "Quite the sight. A lot more dashing than dragging my chains around, isn't it? I might as well go ahead and jump in the river now. With all this shit I'd at least sink fast."

Miguel caught Cesare by the sleeve before he could launch himself into a fully-blown melancholic fit. "Oh come now. Don't be melodramatic. Nothing has to change, has it? All you need to do is be a bit more discreet about things. Exercise a little caution, and you'll be fine."

"No, I won't." Slumping down on the nearest bench, Cesare hung his head.

"Hey," Miguel snorted, slouching behind him. "You know what San Ambrogio said. Purpura facit reges, non sacerdotes. The Purple makes kings, not priests. And you're right pretty when you pout." His fingers were starting to rub circles across Cesare's back, pushing knuckles into spots that felt tight, drawing delightful little grunts from Cesare while the velvet whispered under Miguel's hands.

Eyes almost closing of their own accord, Miguel noticed how the cardinal's ring caught the sun. Cesare's gloved hands lay in his lap, rays of light moving across the engraved gold. Miguel wanted to kneel and kiss it, there and then, but when Cesare was this moody... He dug his thumbs deeper into Cesare's nape and splayed his fingers, kneading and stroking, brushing against the cloth wherever he could.

Suddenly Cesare's voice careened off into boyish glee again. "They say Giuliano took to bed with an apoplectic fit after my nomination was read in Consistory," he blurted out, looking up to catch Miguel's eye. "Ill with a fever from frothing too hard. Isn't that funny? Too bad he didn't die."

"Yeah," Miguel countered drowsily, biting his lip. He was reluctant to step away from Cesare. His erection would be awkward to hide. "Man's a menace."

---

_May I suggest you kneel and-_

He grabs him by the chin instead, slaps his face, grabs the chin again when his lips don't part. There's this spot down the jaw, a nerve or something. Can be really painful.

There's the hiss of air, sharply expelled, a short struggle for dignity, soon to be replaced by mewls and the wet sound of sucking. At first there's still some slapping and gagging, but this is an expert tongue after all, and oh God, it is trying to please.

---

"Oh, here you are." Cesare rubs his eyes. He's padded into the vestibule looking rumpled: the pillow has left a crease down the side of his face, his hair has grown damp and limp, and Miguel could swear he just wiped a tiny trail of drool off his chin. "I had the strangest dream," he starts, then stops. Probably because of Miguel's furious blush. "What are you do-" The soldo hasn't dropped yet, but Cesare isn't thick.

He only needs to see the cloth, rolled out like bales from Byzantium; the small bead of sweat near Miguel's upper lip. Miguel's hands, hastily pulled back from the robes. The strain in his hose.

"You... you like them," Cesare says. His tone is flat, as if he can't decide whether that's a betrayal or an amusing type of... quirk. Propping an elbow against the gilt-carved clothes rack, he gives Miguel a once-over. "I can't believe you'd-" He stops short, wets his lips, seems to think.

Miguel's eyes are glued to Cesare's Adam's apple, bobbing up and down as he swallows. "Forgive me. I overstepped," he says, heat colouring his face.

"You did." Cesare looks more intrigued than irritated. He circles Miguel slowly. "Why do you like them?" he asks evenly.

Hands folded in front of his groin, face turned aside, Miguel doesn't answer. He can feel Cesare's breath on his neck. After a minute's silence, he mutters, "The Purple makes kings, Cesare. You just don't know it ye- " Then his voice breaks. A hand has come to rest in Miguel's nape. It's warm, yet it jolts him like an executioner's axe.

"But I do know. Trust me." Cesare laughs close to Miguel's ear. "And this bit of cloth..." He pulls out a fresh robe, folds crisp and whispering. "It turns you on?"

Miguel clears his throat.

"Tell me, Michelotto. It turns you on? Makes you hard? For me, or the power invested in me? You'd like to wear it, I see. Come," Cesare says, voice like a snake gliding through leaves, "come, I'll robe you. You'll look magnificent."

Holding his breath, Miguel bites his lip. When their eyes meet, Cesare gives him a _no? why not? you disappoint me_-look, and Miguel's blush flares with a vengeance. He can barely hear his croaked reply.

---

He should never have agreed to this. Never. But it's such a heady rush to hold out one's wrists and twirl and see a Prince. A prince of the Church, granted, but there'll be a time when cardinals will be warriors, too. Cesare needs to see that. He needs to stop chafing under the Porpora as if it were a yoke, or they'll all end up paying for it. He also needs to stop smoothing the row of thirty buttons down Miguel's stomach, or Miguel will come right here and dribble seed on his feet.

"There," Cesare says, plummy with satisfaction. "All done."

Thank the graces these robes are so voluminous. As Miguel steps away, the velvet sways with a momentum of its own - a gravitas one can feel and be carried away by. When he looks down, there's the cingulum for a belt, the red shoulder cape they call mozetta and, underneath, a Roman cassock tailored to the waist before it splays out. The stiff collar chokes him, and the folds of Cesare's richly lined pluviale weigh him down, but... oh God. Miguel nearly yelps when Cesare takes his gloved right hand.

Flicking curls from his forehead, Cesare drops to one knee and twists his ring up Miguel's finger. The finishing touch. "There." He lets his head fall back. "If it pleases Your Eminence."

Miguel senses a trickle of sweat running from his armpit, straight into the starched camacia. Cesare's camacia. "If it... _what_?"

Cesare's face has lost most of its smugness, but there's something moving under his skin. A muscle jumps and turns into a smirk. "How may I serve Your Eminence?"

Holding the ring into the light, Miguel pretends not to have heard. His mind is already scrabbling through words, rifling through requests. Not requests. Orders.

_How about you-_

_I would ask you to remove your clothes and_

"You will undress," he says quietly. "Then kneel."

---

He's seen sketches of Donatello's David. What a scandal that had caused back then - that a sculptor would portray the young male body so lovingly, with such obvious delight in the form. David's sword arm was relaxed, the other propped against his hip. He stood at ease, so pleased with himself that it seemed salacious - shameless almost -, a knowing smile hovering on his lips.

It's the very image of boyhood at its cusp; no longer a child, not quite a man yet, and Cesare is standing just like that, for all of one second before Miguel slaps it out of him: weight resting on one hip, lips pursed, his cock - quite unlike David's - taking palpable interest in the proceedings.

"You are lacking modesty," Miguel states. He is starting to enjoy this, and it's only after Cesare has thoroughly pleasured him that he allows, no: orders Cesare to take himself in hand. Sprawled in Cesare's favourite chair, Miguel watches Cesare on the carpet, bringing himself off. What few scars he has... Miguel has more, most of them earned in Cesare's service. Not everybody wants to go quietly, after all. The afternoon heat presses on his eyelids, and his mind wanders through names and faces until a triumphant crow redirects his attention. Cesare throws him a debauched look while pulsing white over his hand, but Miguel knows how to prune such impudence. Gazing off into the distance, he waves a bored hand at Cesare. "Hurry up, for God's sake. And don't wipe yourself; you'll need that."

Getting up, he distractedly sorts through his layers of clothing, then prods Cesare's hip with a red-shod toe. "On your back."

---

Persistent knocking wakes them, finding them in a tangled heap stuck to the coverlet. Miguel has curled around Cesare. His last conscious act before falling asleep was pulling the Purple over Cesare's sweaty behind, to protect him from catching a cold in the draft. Blearily opening one eye, Miguel notices the roiling sky outside, so he covers himself and Cesare with the pluviale, too, and engages in some idle petting. His hand roams up and down Cesare's flank until Cesare rolls over and pushes his head under Miguel's chin. "That was nice," Cesare murmurs thickly, still a bit hazy around the edges. Snuffling, he twines their sticky fingers and seems prepared to drool on Miguel's collarbone, when the next round of knocks and an angry voice make them jump off the bed.

Cesare's father rarely comes up here. Certainly not when it's this humid and he has to lug his girth up the stairs. "Jesus, what's with him," Cesare whispers furiously. "Whatever happened to sending some page boy? Stupid Burkhard, if needs be? Go," he hisses, "ask what he wants!"

But of course they still look like... that; Cesare covered in smears and bruises, Miguel in a ruined Porpora missing half the buttons.

Leave it to Cesare to coolly strut to the door to listen, soothing his father through closed panels. _Yes, of course, he's heard him. __Yes, the Spanish ambassador. He'll join them in a minute - no reason to disquiet himself... it's under control... a simple provocation..._ That's when they both snap out of it for good. Quicker out of these robes than in, Miguel grabs his swordbelt just as Cesare wriggles into a fresh black cassock.

"Shit," Cesare curses, fumbling with silk-covered buttons. "Help me with this."

Miguel smiles. "Perhaps you should have washed your hands first," he offers sheepishly, smoothing creases from under the cingulum. "There. Wait. Don't forget the cap, or they'll harp on your slacking with the tonsure again."

---

Servants are bringing food and refreshments for the Spaniards, while their hosts affect the sluggish manners of the extremely put-upon. Finally, after a pregnant pause, Cesare nods in the appropriate direction, the Pope's, and tidily yawns behind a glove. "I am convinced Don Garcilaso meant no insult. Spain may rest assured that the Curia weighs this matter with all due consideration. But would it not be meet and right for His Holiness to incline His ear to King João's lips as well? The maps the Portuguese navigators have assembled are most intriguing. One could almost be led to believe that Senhor Pereira knows something Señor Colón does not."

Garcilaso de la Vega may be a caballero, but he has the manners of a Castilian boor. Made reckless by indignation, he blurts accusations, for is it not known that all Catalans are crooks, and the Holy Father the worst of them?

It's beautiful, really, how little can goad the man into such a rage. Spittle flying, he launches another diatribe, this time against Cesare. Miguel stands behind Cesare's chair, perfectly relaxed. It's just a little ching, the click-and-slide of an inch of metal that nobody would have noticed if it weren't for Cesare tilting his head and lifting his hand in an all too obvious _No, desist_.

"We have seen the Portuguese arguments laid out, Don Garcilaso, in great and scholarly detail," Cesare amiably says. "I believe the Catholic Majesties are perfectly capable of commanding their navigators to do the same. We are trying to prevent bloodshed here, not incite it. However, do not flatter yourself into believing that your mission here is essential."

The man pales briefly, then splutters some more, but now even his retinue looks embarrassed.

Turning in his chair, Cesare looks up to meet Miguel's eyes. Cesare's lips part and grow soft. He pauses as if entertaining a thought, then pulls Miguel close. "Caro, I must tell you," he whispers. "You looked very hot like that. Wearing the Purple." He smiles sweetly, then continues for all to hear, "Don Miguel, the Spanish ambassador would like to depart. See him home, will you? I'm afraid Rome is not safe after dark."

Miguel has to bite his tongue to keep a straight face. He hasn't crossed half the hall when Garcilaso already makes a dash for the door, spurs clattering on the stairs. Cesare shrugs a just as well, then calls Miguel back to his side.

And as he is returning to his place, Miguel's smile matches the cardinal's, small and content and just the tiniest bit cryptic.

_Facit reges_, it seems to say, and,

_Perhaps we can play this game again, sometime_

_Soon?_


End file.
